The One That Chased the Boys
by Q u e e n V a m p
Summary: Little Amelia is talking to Ivan, how will her parental guardian take it? /fem!America/
1. Arthur

**The One That Chased the Boys**

* * *

_"Won't someone tell me  
What is happen to me?"_

-"Must Not Chase The Boys" by Play

* * *

Arthur Kirkland liked to think of himself as a man of mild manners and exquisite charms. He was, after all, the personification of the United Kingdom –please, shove aside his brothers and sister_– _and you'd find a man of such refine allure, filled with rich history and the greenest eyes.

"Green is the color of the monster of jealousy, you know." Francis Bonnefoi tusked as the two peered out from behind a building. Well, Arthur peered, Francis stood out in the open like the dumb nut wanker he is, fanning himself with an antique silk fan, embroidered with gold, belong to one of his long dead French queens. "And you, mon ami, are as green as a those buggish eyes of yours."

Of course, Francis was French so all of that came out with a chorus of _z_'s.

Like so: "Und thew-ou, mon ami, ah az green az dose boo-gish eyez awf yourz"

"Wanker." Arthur retorted, but his heart wasn't in it, at the moment he was watching his little colony speak with someone many years her senior. _In his garden no less_! And laugh every now and spun her lace white parasol he'd given her around and around against the crook of her shoulder. "What is she _doing_?"

"I believe Mademoiselle Amelia is flirting."

Another thing. Amelia was Am-_ee_-leah.

"Fla-fla-fla-fla-_flirting_! ?" Arthur blushed redder than the roses in the garden. "Not on my watch–!"

"Wait! Mon ami, you'll ruin it!" Francis grabbed a fistful of Arthur's jacket and pulled him back behind the wall he'd previously been attempting to flee from. "A young maiden's first approach to a man is a sacred dance. You mustn't intervene! Amelia wants to speak with Imperial Russie, you shall let her!"

Why did Francis always side with Amelia again?

"Yeah. . .riiiight. Just like you let Mathew 'speak' with Prussia?"

The Englishman flinched when he saw the dangerous glint of the guillotine in Francis's eye.

"We. Will. Not. Speak. Of. Mathieu."

He was practically flaming at the mouth.

"Um . . .okay, old chap. Calm down, there. . .uh. . ."

"I've never been to your place before, what's it like?" Both colonist turn in time to find the pair they'd previously been watching pass dangerously close to their hiding spot. Flattening themselves back onto the flagstones, they stretched their necks to listen.

"The Motherland is very cold in the winter. . ."

"And in the spring?"

"It's. . .warm. . ." Arthur rolled his eyes and glared back at the couple, how America was so obvious with her smiles and kind words, unlike her unruly runarounds on the Great Plains just a few years back –it'd taken him the longest time to finally force her into corsets and skirts again. Her country was so uncivilized. She was wearing a gown now, it was soft, made of pale yellow silk and trimmed with lace, a matching with hat with lacy white flowers and the parasol he'd bestowed upon her as a gift. This expensive outfit she wore for her meeting was very unlike many of her more preferred 'colonial' dresses made of cotton and scratchy lace.

Sadly, Amelia hate hate _hated _being dressed up and even went as far as accusing England of making her look the China dolls he gave the princesses of his country.

But she looked beautiful. Her gold hair, her gold dress, she was radiating like sunshine. Everyone had said so, he was pretty sure all the servants in his house had become lovestruck fools and were writing poems for her –not that he'd allow them to court her, according to the grapevine, Amelia was his niece– and even Russia was blushing.

Wait Russia _blushing_?

Amelia had done away with her hat and the parasol as they continued to walk and talk.

Arthur watched as she would glance at her feet, occasionally hoist her skirt to high when walking and lean along with the breeze like she wanted to run with it.

All these little tics and tats and things Arthur couldn't stand, and Amelia had Ivan hooked.

He stared down at her with a soft expression; nodding, no matter what little inane thing she said and seemed to be sincerely paying attention, etching her words into memory. In fact, his entire form seemed to be alternating towards her. As they walked, with each and every grand step made by Imperial Russia's left foot, his body pivoted more towards Amelia like she was the very sun and he was but a seedling flower, searching for her warmth, growing towards her.

Growing to like her.

England batted away those thoughts irritably and continued to watch.

Francis had slowly bled into the back of this picture, making a break for it while England was still sane, and he knew that he wouldn't intervene. The pair rounded back around the garden again and again and with every round, England's nails dug gorges into the stones of the garden wall.

Finally they'd walked around the garden twenty times and Amelia was now laughing carelessly, throwing her head back and let her blonde ringlets tumble down her shoulders to the small of her back where Russia's hand touched. He was getting comfortable with her –_a little too much so_– brushing his hand across hers, touching her shoulder, the small of her back, _again._

Arthur tensed when Russia stopped walking, Amelia stopped too, turning towards him asking if he was alright. Russia nodded and with a pure smile, took one lock of her hair and twisted it around his finger, watching it curl, twist, twine around his stupid gloved finger. And Amelia was _blushing_!

"It's so amazing," he murmured softy tugging at the blonde curl and then letting it slide out of his hand. "You look like a podsolnechnik. A sunflower."

"Oh!" Amelia blushed, donning all of the unapparent gold lovingness of her. "I, uh, never really thought yellow was my color, you see. . .Iggy decided too–"

"Then I must thank him." Russia interrupted. "You look lovely in yellow, _da_?"

"Oh, uh, well. . .my country is full of them. . .pod-eh-chenchinick-something or others. . ." Russia laughed, laughed although she was butchering his language. England would have beheaded her on the spot. He couldn't count the times he'd wanted to just have another 'Why-You-Speak-English' standoff with Amelia on the matter. Before all she'd spoke was a platoon of Native American tongues that made little to no sense to his ears.

A slight joke about Russia coming to visit called him back, but soon the two found it was getting dark and decided to head back to their respectable accommodations for the evening.

"It has been lovely talking to, Ms. Amerika."

"Likewise. . ." Amelia's smile was in place and, with a final kiss to her hand. He was gone.

Amelia couldn't stop smiling for days.

In fact, England was sure she hadn't washed that hand at all.

* * *

**Yes, America knew Russia before she was a country. There was a meeting of Tsar Peter and some other American guy named William Penn met in England to talk. So, I had Russia and America do a little flirting because fem!America is young and viberant and Russia is in the period of rivial with Peter's wife Catherine the Great as Tsar, or Tsarina. **

**I just love the sound of Imperial Russia, Russia's good too, but _Imperial _Russia, makes me think of 'Once Upon a December' and the beautiful image of my little Vanya in that one ghost ballroom scene from _Anastasia _is just lovely and makes me want to do research! And then write about my findings of research! Then turn it into a story.**

**Anyway, I got this idea from chapter one of XxDamned ForeverxX and her story 'Our Love', which you should read, because it's much more accurate and well-written because it's *glance* one in the morning and I've had a long day and I'm still wearing my (dry) contacts!**

**I'll fix all and any mistakes tomorrow~ night~**

**~QueenVamp**


	2. Francis

**The One That Chased the Boys**

* * *

_"Why am I so misunderstood  
Why can't they see?"_

-"Must Not Chase the Boys" by Play

* * *

Francis Bonnefoi took pride in knowing how to throw a party. Albeit this couldn't be one of his infamous 'just for two' or drunken whine tasters. Arthur had asked for a small farewell party for Russie on the last night after dinner –and, he quotes: "Nothing _too _extravagant, you lousy frog. I don't want other people here . . . in fact, don't make it a big deal at all, only plan two days in advance . . . maybe the day of. Scratch that, make it good enough to show I have money, but not enough to make him extend his stay. Got that?"– and poor, poor Angleterre had been in a hand wringing, floor pacing worry every time his dearest little colony, Amelia, left his sight for more than a minute.

(Even worse, Amelia had been able to convince Angleterre to let her take Ivan –or "Vanya" as she called him– out for a shopping trip. With no _escort. _Oh yes, Arthur's thoughts were running wild with the fantasies of other uses for coat closets.)

"Mon ami," Francis warned as he leafed through his sheet music. "You are looking a little. . .uptight. Are you feeling well?"

Blazing green eyes snapped on him. "Well enough to kick that bastard out of my country!"

Francis cocked a brow.

The English accent was so weird. Par exemple, bastard came out like it was pronounced: _BOSS-_tard.

Not that he was complaining, he'd grown accustom to Angleterre's yammering over the centuries.

"Jealousy does not look good on you, mon ami." Francis studied the notes on the music sheet.

That was only this morning, all afternoon from his room Francis could hear Amelia arguing with her maids on whether or not she'd wear the padded buffers under her dress to make the skirt of her dress branch out exaggeratingly at the hips. Something a little like his darling Marie wore. It _was _the latest fashion, he'd brought it with him from his home in hopes of getting her to wear it, but it was useless. Arthur's shouting joined in.

In conclusion, Amelia did not wear the buffers and skirted down the marble stairwell of Arthur's London home in a pale crème colored gown with a grand sweep that was much more than her usual can-can kick she did as she decsended. The skirt was A-line, levitating a few inches off the ground to show her tiny feet with white satin and gold Louis heels, and was ruffled in some places, and had layers of gossamer pilling up on the satin skirt and fluttering off of her. She looked like an angel in her decent, flushing slightly when she reached the bottom step. "What?" she asked.

The savage little girl that played in the mud and slung back whiskey when her father-figure wasn't looking had become a lady almost instantly.

Mathieu stepped forward to give his sister a compliment and Francis chirped words of praise, and then found that the guest of honor –Ivan/Russie/Vanya– was nowhere to be found. Glancing over his shoulder, Francis found him staring, eye locked upon cherie Amelia. Lips slightly parted, eyes never straying.

Angleterre had an almost mirrored expression.

* * *

Francis drew the bow over the strings. A soft cry erupted from the body of his violin, soft and dark, something Ivan would truly appreciate. Arthur sent a straying glance over to him from Ireland's shoulder and received a shift kick to the shin for doing so. Francis, however, remained perched on the piano, eyes slowly drifting over the dancing couple.

Ivan had his hand comfortably on Amelia's waist and Amelia's hand clutched at Ivan's shoulder, looking slightly embarrassed as the taller nation smiled down at her endearingly.

_Oh, _Francis smiled and continued his little piece. Amerique's full skirt flailed as she twirled and showing her ankles –had it not been for Madamoiselle Ireland's iron gripe on Arthur, the Englishman surely would have marched over and forced his colony into a pair of stockings. _What is this I see?_

Amelia and Ivan rejoined hands again; both smiling to themselves about the terrible formality of the dance and Ivan remained looking down on her with complete adoration. Across the room, Peter and William were watching their personifications dance, as according to their conversations, their countries were getting on fairly well.

Well, Amelia wasn't exactly a country; she was still a little colony. A fledgling unable to even properly dress in the womanly attire without Arthur breathing down the back of her neck. True, Angleterre had always been a tad obsessive when it came to Amelia, Amelia's health, Amelia's well-being, but with all that coddling and yammering, seeds of rebellion had begun blooming from Amerique's heart.

From what his mon cherie Mathieu had told him: she did what she wanted when Arthur was gone, rode her horses, threw aside her corsets and even left her luminous mansion in Virginia and traveled up and down her territory, talking to the people. She even contemplated cutting her hair once or twice.

Mathieu was worried. Arthur was furious. Francis was observing.

Would Amelia ever take the _big step_? Ever rebel against Angleterre completely?

The song was coming to a close, Francis flicked the last couple of notes and drew it to a close with a few flourishing movements of his hand. His eyes, closed in the rapture, peeked open again to catch another extraordinary thing –Ivan, kneeling further down to Amelia, his eyes closed as well and his lips pressed onto the crown of the little colony's flaxen tinged hair.

Angleterre had his back turned and the moment was their's to hold.

A little secret between Amelia and Ivan.

And now Francis too.

* * *

**I always like to think of Francis as an observer, he knows everyone's secrets and now he knows Amelia's! **

**Yes, when Amelia was a colony England had Amelia grow her hair long. She cut it during the revolution. **

**Should I make this a three-shot? Or keep going until the songs over? ****If it does the pov's will go: Arthur, Francis, Mathew, Amelia. No Ivan pov here. I wrote a new RusAme story called "Krasota" just from Ivan's pov. Check it out~!**

**Ugh, my dog had puppies~! And (if you know all the hetalia nations fem!/human names) I dubbed them Lovina, Felicana, Antonio, and Ivan. FOR A REASON, they all act _exactly _like their characters on the show! AHHH! Ivan's (the only white puppy/Russia) sits on his brother and sisters, Lovina (South Italy) is a biter, Felicana (North Italy) is a crier and Antonio (Spain) is a cuddler. IT'S ADORABLE~! Ivan's sitting on Antonio and Feli's crying while Lovi is biting mama's ear and whipping Antonio in the face with her tail. So cute~**

**~QueenVamp**


	3. Matthew

**The One That Chased The Boys**

* * *

_"Now I'm caught between, the devil and the angel  
That I use to be."_

-"Must Not Chase the Boys" by Play

* * *

Matthew Williams was a vastly shied comparison to his exuberant fraternal twin, Amelia. Being the personification of Canada, France's staked territory, and her being Arthur's added up to many, many family quarrels and near misses of tender family moments. Matthew loved his sister, don't get him wrong, but life seemed . . . unfair somehow. Though he was much taller, more educated, more well nearly everything; it was Amelia who was showered with attention wherever she went, by both their respected parental figures.

Though at times he found that having the Frenchman and the British gentleman distracted was a good thing. He could always sneak off to see his albino amour at the borderlines and be back in time to find some new odd happening –like, Arthur forcing Amelia to sit down, or Francis attempting to teach Amelia French or Amelia sprinting down the corridor at daybreak towards him.

"Mattie~!" She looked so relieved, hiked her skirts much higher and, with one hand, grabbed his arm and dragged him up into a dead sprint which, putting in consideration the events of his earlier activates, sent an aching pain shooting up from his pelvis up to mingle with his spine and lingering petal pink bruises dusted over his skin. But Amelia wouldn't let him go slack –taking expert lefts and rights, it became clear to him whom she was running _from. _

"Amelia Felicity Jones!" The roar of the gaunt British accent twined with a touch of England's 'privateer' bellow the twins would often hear during the nursing of childhood. Amelia giggled like a child and soon found what she was looking for. A tightly shut door leading to England's hall of memories –he'd dare not enter lest be plagued and assaulted by years of war, famine and worse just to shout at Amelia for some trivial thing.

Matthew was never sure how she didn't trip whence she released her bunched up skirts, threw the entirety of her body weight into the heaving soft wooden door and pulled herself and himself in and shut the door, locked tight from the inside and outside. She let go of his hand once safely inside and rested her hands on her hips approvingly while Matthew near fell to his knees. _Damn, Gilbert. . . _

"Eh, what's the matter, Mattie?" Amelia just now noticed and Matthew massaged his thighs before waving it off.

"What? No, don't worry about me, it's nothing . . ." His beautiful sister raised a brow and blew a wet raspberry at him with a bored expression. "Why did you bring me here?"

"Oh . . ." The pummeling of fists onto the wood echoed from the other side and Amelia let an oath slip from under her breath. "C'mon, Mattie, we've gotta hide." She leaned down to take his elbow and pulled him further into the darkness, down into the inner workings of England's memories. "This is the only place we can speak."

There was no noise –save the soft scuffle of their shoes and the whisper of their breath– but the further they went Matthew felt his eardrums pop at the sheer lack of noise. His eyes strained from the lack of light.

England's heart, the downward workings of the Englishman's mind and thought all laid ahead in this room. There was no secret about it, all nations had one. They were built, molded and to collect the nations memories and history as they saw it. He'd never been in any but his own, each was different, you see, and Matthew for a moment felt grateful that he had Amelia here to guide him.

. . ._guide _him?

"You've been in here before haven't you?" The noise seemed to echo, ricochet and blare back in his ears, he winced and put his free hand up to his ear to block the loud hiss of his voice. Amelia turned and smiled at him jestingly and then guilty.

"Yes." She whispered and the words didn't ringing back annoyingly.

They repeated.

Inner working mantra's on confirmation that his twin had repeatedly assaulted England's most sacred place.

Amelia just kept forward, silently nudging Matthew whichever way and soon lights came into view, slow soft white lights that rushed closer to them with every defiant step and soon the floor fell away from them completely and they were _floating. _

The sensation reminded Matthew of being underwater, his clothes lapped by the smooth waved and brushed with the chill of the water, but no dampness. His twin colony's hair floated around her like a halo and she took one jump and –_zumph– _they were standing together on a beach of white sand and shells.

Matthew's boots sunk into the sand, he looked around. The clear blue sky with wispy clouds, to the deep glassy water. "This is England's mind . . . ?" Birds took to the air, wings scooping air beneath feathers. "Where are his memories?"

"Here!" Amelia shouted and suddenly dove for something in the water. He hadn't realized his sister had been pacing the length of the coastline and had, evidently, found what she was looking for.

Lifting a fist sized, smooth rock-like thing from the water and made a flourishing movement.

"That's alright and good, soeur, but what about England's–?"

Amelia shoved the rock-thing into his face. "Right here."

"An oyster . . .?"

"Listen," Amelia put the oyster shell up to his ear and . . . he heard the powerful shouts of a woman. He could picture her, clearly in his mind like he was standing right there in the bed chamber with her. She was pacing, angrily, ranting and raving on and on about something when, finally, Matthew –er, England– stepped forward and took her shoulders. The gold embodiment of her gown smoothed under his hands and her wild red curls slipped from its original bun and gold netting. He called her 'Elizabeth' and told her 'everything will be okay' and kissed her forehead softly.

He was abruptly pulled from the memory when Amelia pulled the oyster shell away.

"See, his memories are everywhere. They are associated with things that link to an event. Everything on this island is a link to Iggy's most precious memories. The water leads to more memories. Fun, huh?" She grinned.

"So . . . Queen Elizabeth ate oysters?"

"No . . ." The sudden change of topic, completely reared her train of thought. "From what I remember of her paintings she wore a lot of pearls . . ." Amelia smiled wildly and waved the oyster shell excitedly. "Pearls come from oysters~! Pearls for purity, pearls because she lived a long life as a virgin. Iggy's losing his touch. He can't hide anything from me anymore."

"Hn, you do come here often don't you."

_That's where she's always running off to._

"I come here all the time; it's the only way for me to know when Iggy's hiding something from me." Amelia gently placed the memory of Arthur's favorite queen into the shallow end of the waterline for later and, pulling out a length of ribbon, Amelia lifted the helm of her skirt, tying the material up to rest against her bare knees. She kicked off her shoes into the sand and wadded into the water. Matthew watched, transfixed on his sister's movements. She surely wouldn't sully that new lavender dress England had given her . . . come to think of it; England would probably blame him if she ruined it.

Native America, their mother, had taught them not to fear the dirt, the trees, the water or the unknown.

Though their technical fathers would probably chide them for ruining their nice clothes.

Like they were little children who couldn't already take care of themselves. Matthew bitterly chewed on the thought, but let it go like the nonexisting breeze moving through him and plopped down onto the sandy beach to relax. All this excitement over the past month had been almost too much. Arriving in London, Amelia meeting a Russian, hiding from Arthur, Amelia falling in love with said Russian . . . and on top of that Gilbert's earlier request to see him had taken a turn for the scandelous.

Albiet, had it been anyone else Francis might've been proud of him.

With the silence Matthew's thought began to trail until he realized something: Amelia was being quiet.

He glanced at her, then did a double take. His sunshine and roses soeur was frowning into a puddle of water.

"Amelia . . ."

She didn't move but the slight 'hmm' that passed her lips let him know she was listening.

"Ame, are you okay?" He sat up a little, correcting his posture and _ow . . ._

"It's nothing really," Amelia murmured staring into the small amount of water in her hand with utter distain. Amelia lets the water slip through her fingers back into England's ocean of thought. "I'm just thinking a lot . . . Arthur hasn't been treating me fairly lately . . ."

_Arthur? _She never used his real name.

"And?" Matthew asks. "What do you expect when you act like this?"

He gestured on 'this' to her muddy legs and ruined shoes.

The slight jab didn't affect her. She was always so much closer to mother than he had been.

"Ivan doesn't think I'm indelicate." Matthew raised an eyebrow. "I want to go with Ivan."

* * *

**Yes, PruCan, RusAme, and . . . nothing else yet but mentions of USUK, FraCan, and FRUK**

**I loved writing Matthew, and yes his secret rebel side that Francis (obviously) knows a little about, and told Arthur, who sheilded Amelia's ears. **

**Okay, so I personally think there should be a America and Native America because honestly Native American's were here before we were. Also I've been listening to 'Just Around the Riverbend' and 'He Lives in You'. But I don't think Amelia would consider Artie boy her father, he's more of a guy that makes sure she stays in line. **

**So I've written out the basic outline and . . . twenty-eight chapters . . .Wow. Ivan can't always be there, but Alaska (cough-love child-cough) is very close and as soon as I figure out how long it's been called Russian America I will find a way for our nation Romeo & Juliet. (cough-thank travel during the 1700s not me-cough)**

**God, to-do lists a mile long. Call said 'boyfriend' to go see Avengers, plan awesome sleepover, work, find new job, save money, driver's lisence next week. Why do you people make bets on when I'm going to update next? Serious money is at stake here.**

**Review, or I'll cry. Ivan next chapter~!**

**~QueenVamp**


	4. Amelia

**The One That Chased The Boys**

* * *

_"They say I'll understand it all in good time."_

-"Must Not Chase the Boys" by Play

* * *

Amelia never thought herself to be a particularly emotional person –when it came to good-byes, of course. Good-byes were something she was use to. Saying good-bye to England all those times when she was younger and he had to return home, or the times when he had to practically pry her off of him and put her on the ship himself. Those moments were bitter on her tongue and caused a swell of sorrow through her body.

This good-bye felt like a dull, but painfully growing, ache in her heart.

All around them on the docks the Russian personification's luggage was being loaded up into the ship to his first class room. Arthur was glaring in anticipation at an old silver pocket watch of his and growling at the supposed captain on how the ship was suppose to be out of his harbor ten minutes ago –luckily the terrified man hadn't lingered on the possessive claim of ownership Arthur outright assumed. Not too far away, a stagecoach was waiting to take them back to the manor and inside were Matthew and Francis –who've, as Amelia noticed, haven't been getting along as smoothly as they usually did.

But all that seemed to matter now was the two of them, her and Ivan, standing in the crowd in front of the wooden ship. Amelia had stopped herself from the aching want to reach out and touch him. To fix a stray strand of hair, to dust the lint off his coat, adjust his necktie.

_Not that he'd need it, _She thought almost irritably. _He looks perfect._

Ivan is wearing an empire fashion coat in the Russian style. The coat itself was almost as long as him, swathing his body from the broad shoulders to his ankles in the soft dark blue material, with a row of double-breasted buttons traveling down the length of his chest to his waist. The collar was lifted slightly to fend off the cold, and he had a pair of leather and kidskin gloves on his fingers that matched the boots he wore.

Amelia almost felt like swooning at how proper, yet deliciously disheveled he looked with his ruffled necktie and longish silver tinged hair.

She felt as if she were in rags compared to him –albeit her 'rags' were made of soft billowy silk and trimmed with lace, and a new coat fox fur trimmed coat. But winter was _his element. _She couldn't help but feel silly in her layers of skirts and coats, all pink cheeked and runny nose, while he stood tall and powerful allowing only small puffs of cool air leave his body. His beautifully smooth skin untouched by the cold.

He looked so heartbreakingly perfect. She'd dare venturing to comment on it and he only smiled.

"I have grown accustom to the cold, Amelya. Your winters aren't nearly as harsh as mine."

"Are you serious?" Amelia asked, shell-shocked at the possibility. "_My _winters aren't as cold as _yours_? Hell, I lose more than a hundred people every year from my winters."

"_Amelia_." Iggy hissed, not liking her vocabulary, but Ivan didn't seem to mind.

"I can't even comprehend that, it's so cold." Pulling up the collar of her coat, Amelia shivered as another blast of cold air from the sea seemed to move right through her. Ivan stepped closer and her cheeks flamed, hopefully he'd think it's from the cold.

"Let me see . . ." He took her hands from the lapels of her coat and held them to her eyelevel –around his collarbone level because he was so tall– and examined her hands like a practiced physician search for signs of injury. "You're wearing the wrong gloves, Amelya."

Amelia stared dazed. She loved the sound of her name from his lips. She loved his accent.

Then she realized her mistake: pale gossamer wristlets. _Damn._

"Oh, well, I was in a hurry . . ."

"This will help." Ivan unfastened the buttons and slipped off her gloves before bringing her hands up to his mouth in a cupping motion and exhaled. His warm breath danced through her fingers and Ivan looked almost delighted at the possible looks he saw from both her and Arthur.

She unconsciously curled her fingers after a few moments and the tips of her nails brushed his nose.

He then rubbed her hands between his own kidskin gloves. "Better?"

"Much, thank you." Amelia managed without a sigh on contempt. He was still holding her hands.

"I use to do this when I was younger . . ." He added softly. _And he did it for me too! _Amelia almost wanted to squeal in delight. That must mean he liked her!

She caught the flash in his eye as the last of his luggage began its climb up the plank onto the ship.

"Will you write to me, podsolnechnik?" Ivan asked softly, his eyes flickering curiously over to England every other second as if fearing an outburst from the much shorter nation. Amelia could almost snort, she was sure Ivan could take him if the chance came, but she knew Iggy would keep his gentleman façade on until the ship set sail. Then he'd growl unplesantries about him.

"I swear I will. Even if I have nothing to say!" Amelia grinned broadly.

Ivan chuckled and ran his gloved thumb over her knuckles. "That seems highly unlikely to me, Amelya_._" He smiled and raised her hand to his smooth, pale lips and pressed a soft chaste kiss to her sun-freckled knuckles.

She felt her heart pick up and almost wanted to beg him to take her with him to Russia.

A desire that was quickly beaten into the back of her head when a loud shrilling call sang through the air, calling him aboard. Ivan looked back and nodded to the captain and then to Amelia again and gave a soft, sweet smile.

"Proshchalʹnyĭ, Amerika." He let her hands go, handing back her gloves, letting them slowly fall to her sides and smiled once more at her before turning on one polished bootheel and making his was up the plank and onto the ship, looking over his shoulder to see that she was still watching.

And she kept watching as the boat glided out of sight eyes trained on that on spot of the horizon he disappeared into even as she was ushered back to the carriage.

* * *

**I wanted to add Belarus and Ukraine! I really did! But they weren't countries yet . . . I wanted Belarus to appear on the ship. Anyway, this a cute Amelia and Vanya chapter. Look at them so adorable. I hope I got her character, like more as a real girl: she'd confident, shy, cute, loving, and fierce.**

**And I love Ivan's coat. I want that coat.**

**Suave men~ Like Tom Hiddleston! I love Tom Hiddleston! (Loki from_ Avengers_ and _Thor_) He's adorable! I saw _Avengers _twice!**

**My dog Charlie (a dog/cat just because she's my cowardly sidekick) had a litter and her last puppy is her exact opposite, the steriotypical 'bad puppy' and Charlie must know how to dish out punishments because she loves to steal all his toys (and sitting on him and stepping on him and pushing him around). And I think she thinks we're keeping him now because he's the last one left. God . . . she's going to find a way to lock him out of the house . . . I just know she will. (They're both purebred labs, very smart)**

**Review, or I'll cry. **

**~QueenVamp**


	5. His Amelia

**The One That Chased the Boys**

* * *

_"But age ain't nothing but a number in my mind."_

-"Must Not Chase the Boys" by Play

* * *

When they got back to the mansion, Amelia retreated to one of his many studies, this one buried far in the house on the third floor between two bedrooms—the door was inconspicuously placed and, like most things in his house, they tended to move around (long story, don't ask), but his colony had never had an ounce of trouble finding it.

Amelia had learnt the secrets of England's house, from the time Walter Raleigh brought her first natives (and herself) to his home, she'd spent long hours and nights exploring the inner workings, every nook and cranky of the England's houses with Queen Elizabeth herself smiling down at her, holding her hand and showing her the roses in the garden while Arthur tagged along, making a crown of daisies for her.

He remembered how the two looked at each other, the love shining in his favorite queen's eyes imagining for a few moments that Amelia as their child—golden haired, blue-eyed and perfect.

He was silly enough to play along, and for a short while Amelia was his and Elizabeth's daughter—their darling, their little poppet, teaching her English and dressing her like doll and gifting her like she was the Princess of Wales.

They were both filling cliff steep void that could never be filled.

In the end, Elizabeth was no more than a human, a passing phase like Francis's Joan D'Arc.

But Amelia stayed with the passing of years, decades and a century or so, growing and glowing with the same golden light akin to an angel and brightening his darkest hours. The period after Elizabeth was particularly grueling and curling up beside little Amelia between savagery and politics just may have saved his life.

"Amelia, is there anything wrong?" Arthur asked and the little jump she gives lets him know he's caught her off-guard in very deep in thought.

"Huh?" She turned on the plush sofa she's sprawled out on and meets his skeptical greens with her own curious blues. "What'd you say, Iggy?"

"Amelia . . ." He stepped around the couch and tapped his hand at her bare ankle, so she would move them to the floor. "You have to sit like this." He smiled to himself cheerfully—she'd never change, would she?—and missed her immediate frown.

"Well, I was alone, I thought it was alright." She wiggled her toes, free from their pinching shoes and thrusts her feet onto his lap. "There we are, now you can rub them." Her voice was light and full of zeal, but she's missing her signature _spark _that would make him want to disagree and groan and lecture just so she could beg and tease more.

"Listen, I know you're upset about Russia's departure . . ." His voice hit its soft, understanding tone that's filled with possibility and Amelia's lips press into a thin line with anticipation. "Perhaps Russia can . . . _visit _sometime."

The offer was hollow and she should know it, but the very thought of seeing that Russian again—no matter how ludicrous—made her light up like the sky at day break.

And it killed him a little to have to see that.

* * *

**I'm gone for months and I give you this, I am so sorry. **

**And I will be updating sooner. Promise.**


	6. Tragic Love

**The One That Chased the Boys**

* * *

_"I'm going crazy with this, push me, pull me  
Caught between wrong and right."_

-"Must Not Chase the Boys" by Play

* * *

It was the great elephant in the room, and Francis—the king of l'amour, himself—was having trouble trying to remedy what was happening to his family.

It was love, and it was obvious.

Amerique was in love with Russie.

Angleterre was in love with Amerique.

Mathieu was in love with Prusse_._

And love was tearing them all apart, like it always does.

In these infernal circles they're kind ran in there would always be love and pain. Why did they get to feel love? Sure they were the personifications of their countries, but they weren't _just _plots of land. They were their people too. Anything their people stood for, they're personifications simply were. So, if love was destroyed among the people, would they have the chance to spare their harden hearts?

Probably not.

Time healed all wounds and they lived with the times.

Heartbreak was inevitable. Pain was a choice.

People were resilient in ways unknown, but only few could really choose not to feel pain. To numb themselves beyond recognition and lose their hearts to blackened corpses.

His own heart was the Ville des Lumières—the City of Lights—and all around him, he was known for his love, his art, his light, his language. And that was all. He may not be the best at wars but when it came down to the wars of hearts, he trumped Angleterre thousands of times over.

That being said, he knew nothing could be done to save the too far gone now.

Only time would tell, and time would continue spinning on.

* * *

**Again. Francis strikes me as a very deep character, very lovely and very broken, and he's just so great to write for once you find the right rythem for him he just speaks to you. **

**That being said there will be some tricky affairs of the heart with FrCan and USUK, older nails will be fighting tooth to nail to keep their colonies and Native America will make an appearance. **


End file.
